Master of War
by The Deepest Wells
Summary: Companion to my story Bixbite, but with the focus on Frodo/Rosie. What began as an attempt to redeem his cousin launched Frodo into a snarky, tangled romance he never considered for himself . . . and right in the middle of a war with foreigners, no less. Reviews greatly appreciated! :)
1. The Fair Rosie

**Welcome to Master of War! This is my convoluted idea revolving around a Frodo/Rosie ship, with a fem!Frodo/Sam ship elsewhere. I figured that, as a Frodomance writer, it simply had to be done. This serves as a companion to my story** **The Lord of the Rings by Bixbite Baggins** **if anyone is interested in checking that out. This story starts up pretty darn fast, and isn't very long, only about 50,000 words or so. Chapters should be uploaded once a week; I appreciate reviews, especially if there's something I ought to fix about the story. :) Thanks, and enjoy!**

It is suitable to marry a lass with perfectly good hobbit-sense and the ability to cook so that your mouth waters upon opening the door to your hole, unless she knows how to wield a sword and lead an army: then your marriage is a disgrace and perhaps you were so dull you shouldn't have been courting in the first place. Besides, if she does know how to protect herself and be a leader, she hasn't hobbit-sense at all.

In spite of this—or because of it—I found myself searching for a lady who could wield a sword, for I knew it was impossible. Of course, good food at the hand of a wife is essential, but I suppose I didn't think seriously about that. Well . . . all right. In hindsight, I convinced myself to search for the unattainable because I didn't have any interest at all in any Shire lasses. I suppose I found them pretty, but they weren't my primary focus. And they surrounded me on all sides; I never had a concern about isolating a particular lass. They were all the same, and as tradition stated—thus I believed—that lasses were intellectually, physically, and in all other ways inferior, save appearances.

Suffice it to say I had no wish to meddle in courting.

Not that I would have been old enough: I consider this perspective from my twenties, a time that seems longer ago than it truly is. A few years into said decade, in spite of my lack of interest (and subsequent obliviousness to the interest of lasses in me) it came to my attention that the shy and particular Samwise had found himself a lass other than my cousin Bixbite to give his affections to: Rosie Cotton.

I thought nothing more of it than to tease him, I confess. But as he debated on whether he wished to risk himself for my cousin or for this fair lass, I marveled: Bixbite was the only true spirit of any lass I had ever met, in the words of Bilbo. Sam knew that. He had his eye on her since we were small, when she perhaps wasn't quite of age, but still an adult in the eyes of any that were younger than she.

He told me he would marry her someday. I goaded him about it, certainly, until he mentioned Rosie some years after he had come of age, and suddenly my boyish hopes to call Sam a brother were shattered. This drove me into a great stupor; not only did I wish for Sam to be family, but somewhere beyond my youthfulness a part of me knew I wanted my dear cousin—my cousin that I'd loved since I moved to Bag End—to be protected. I didn't trust her to guard herself, and I would be looking after my own hole; Sam would have to care for her. I forced myself, despite the bitter taste in my young and unsure tongue, to love Rosie so Sam could make his decision.

Again, in my young mind I had a mission, in spite of how repulsive it might seem to me. I told no one, for I knew they would tease me about it, and I grew warm, if not red, in the face upon thinking I _must_ be attracted to Miss Cotton; I _must_.

Most of anyone, Sam caught me at my pondering and my argumentation with my gut instinct to save my cousin and my best friend. This questioning and pondering, however, only took place in the presence of Miss Cotton.

"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" he asked. While I suspected the question a decent amount of time before it actually came up in conversation, it never really bothered me. Speaking of my desires for any sort of courting is an inaccurate summation of my childhood: I cannot emphasize how little it meant to me until it happened to come up.

I did not look to Sam. I could not. Initially I found my gaze resting upon the fair Rosie, my chin set harder than was comfortable. I do not recall the entire situation, but we were out in Sam's garden, and Rosie stood across the way with a group of friends, half of them pointing towards me (I thought it was Sam at the time, but now I see more clearly) and giggling. I am glad of my ignorance at that time. I did not blush nor did I turn away for fear. "I am perfectly well, Sam," I said, undoubtedly too solid to be believable.

"Mr. Frodo, you're staring solid at Miss Cotton," Sam persisted. "Did she offend you or something?"

I was tempted to affirm that, but truly it was not her offense, save that she was evidently too fair and good a lass. No one competed with _my_ cousin, not with Bix, especially not in the eyes of my best friend.

"No," I said at last, for I didn't know what else to say. "Suffice it to say I am studying your lass of choice, Sam."

Sam did not ask more questions, and I completely forgot about my obligation after that day. To now I don't understand if it was some psychological desire to hide my intentions from Sam or lack of interest in general, but it never returned to me.

Not until I was of age myself.

I never realized until then, either, how I didn't have a minute to myself at social gatherings: although I hadn't cared before, I wanted this party to be special: I wanted to be with Sam. But I was pulled onto the dance floor, quite almost protesting, by more lasses than I cared to count to myself. It made me a little queasy to realize how many there were. I found myself hoping, amidst all their talk of weather and needlepoint and prospects of a good marriage (hopefully not to a cracked Baggins lad), for a lass that wanted to talk about what I loved to talk about: books. The outside world. Swordfighting. Elves, dwarves, wizards. After some hours of this nonsense, I would have even settled for an analysis on the fireworks above or the contents of a stirring ale, or just peace and quiet.

Then I spotted Sam, alone, at a party table. I didn't know how to make it over to him; I certainly didn't want to throw Hazel Proudfoot out without any decency. Then I spotted Rosie Cotton dancing to the side.

I swallowed myself back when I spotted her. I knew she was a decent dancer . . . and very pretty, I thought to myself. Her skirts swirled around her legs, and I followed how her feet moved. She was more graceful than most, certainly than my own feet, and for a moment I pined to dance with her. I had built up a subconscious attraction to the lass over the years, but now I had to get away from Hazel.

Then my attention turned back to Sam, and I knew now would be a good time to do him a favor.

"You'll pardon me," I said, cutting Hazel off from a lengthy description on her perfect idea of a wedding dress, "but I have a friend to attend to." I politely kissed her hand—she would not leave me be the remainder of the night if I didn't, I realized upon reflection—and was careful to erase the taste from my lips as I walked away. I heard her giggling hopelessly behind me and wondered with agitation how I had not noticed until now. Hazel was not one to conceal, and I had perhaps, and would for a long time, miss everything until she put it out to me straight.

I threw myself to Sam's side, only too relieved to get away from Hazel. "Go on, Sam!" I cried. I stared out at Rosie, and a hesitation broke my thoughts. Her curls swayed with her movement, and for a fleeting moment I wanted her eyes to catch mine. I suppose every lad has a moment of that nature, where his inner desire to be dominant puffs itself up and determines to court a lass of his choosing, regardless of whether or not she is a good match or altogether pleasant company: she is simply an attractive girl, and to win her by looks or capability alone is triumph.

"Ask Rosie for a dance!" I persisted, tearing my gaze from the lovely girl.

Sam gave me a perplexed, almost embarrassed, look. I gave him a flabbergasted one in response. He vehemently explained that he had fallen away from his love of Rosie years ago, and now his gaze flickered periodically to my cousin Bix, seated on his other side. I surveyed her hopefully: ah, I hadn't even had to attract Miss Cotton and my plans (albeit I perhaps hadn't been the first to conceive them) were working beautifully.

"Actually, Frodo," Bix said coyly, "I think _you_ should ask Miss Cotton for a dance."

That certainly took me by surprise, in fact horrified me, and I didn't have the internal process to protest before Bix turned to Rosie and beckoned her over. I couldn't decide if I wanted her to ignore Bix or come here. She chose the latter, and I immediately wished she was blind, or that Bix hadn't done anything.

But I refused to allow myself room to blush.

"What can I do for you, Miss Baggins?" Rosie asked. Her voice sounded so kind and sweet; my nose crinkled. She was probably just like every other young lady in attendance, and I'd had enough of those. But heavens, she looked beautiful. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, so long as my ears numbed to the conversation and took in her sweet tone.

"Why, Rosie,"—Bix's voice dripped with triumph—"I'm afraid my cousin is left without a partner for this dance. Would you be so kind as to take him for one? I hear he's a wonderful dancer."

Rosie wore an impeccable smile, but I saw the flash of irritation under her skin. I vowed deep within myself to ask her what she detested so much about me, assuming that look meant what I thought it did. Her voice even sounded perfectly cheerful: "Why, of course."

The moment she turned to me, I knew I couldn't do it. Whether Sam sensed my obstinacy or thought I couldn't speak for myself, he nudged me towards her. I nearly shoved her over, and I grabbed her elbow to keep her on her feet. For my clumsiness, I surmised, I ought to do the right thing and dance with her anyway.

I took her hand and bowed over it. To be honest I'd had enough of kissing hands that evening. "I would be . . ." I searched for the right word, but the moment it came out of my mouth I knew it wasn't true. ". . . _honored_ if you would dance with me, Miss Cotton."

She took my arm, but did not squeeze it as most girls did. I led her quickly to the dance floor.

"You don't have to be so unpleasant about it."

I nearly halted, but for fear of startling Bix I kept walking. "Unpleasant?"

"You are obviously distressed," Rosie snorted. I nearly laughed outright; I didn't think her pleasant, soft voice could give such a spiteful tone to any word. "Every dance I see you roll your eyes before you get up, and there must have been some sort of story behind that back there, for you did not ask me."

I struck up a dancing position, and she followed as though she'd been dancing before she could eat. "My dear, one's birthday is not about one's self, but about the guests invited. And the only purpose for my eyerolls—if that is truly what happened—is solely to give off my energies gathering during the lasses' long, dull talks of weddings, flowers, weather, and so forth."

Rosie laughed. The music started up immediately; she was rather good, far better than I was. I stumbled over once or twice, but she didn't seem to notice. "Indeed. Then what do you _wish_ to talk of, Mr. Baggins?"

It was certainly worth a try. "What do I wish to speak of that is proper . . . or fantastical?"

"You mean to say fantastical isn't proper?" Her jaw dropped. "Why, Mr. Baggins!"

"How should I know if a lass wishes to speak of fantastical things? The adults of the Shire—of which I am now a part, I'm afraid—even refuse to approve of my conversation, for it involves wild tales." My feet stopped, and Rosie followed. "Forests. Beasts. Gold and swords."

"Indeed?" she prompted.

I started on a novel I had been reading, and then followed through into a thorough analysis of the novel. It shocked every fiber of my being when she expressed she had read the same novel . . . and didn't receive any of the same philosophies from its dissection in her mind. That turned into witty banter, and a new view for me on the entire story. I vowed as the night wore on and we danced minute after minute that I would go home and read the story again.

"And then next time you will be correct," Rosie said, jutting out her jaw. "A good night to you, Mr. Baggins; I'm afraid I must go to take care of my siblings."

I shook my head. "Not Mr. Baggins." I took her hand back and kissed it; I attempted to keep it polite, but she interested me, and so I added a little to it. "I am Frodo to you, Rosie."

She stared at me. I feared her refusal, but a sly smile—the smile of a lass who knows how tantalizingly beautiful and infuriating she could be—stretched across her perfect, pink lips. I swallowed. "I never told you to call me Rosie, but I suppose it would not be so bad." She curtsied to me, then turned away. "Frodo."

"Wait!"

She glanced back at me briefly, but left the rest of her body facing away, as though to torment me into believing she didn't truly want to hear what I had to say.

"We could read it together," I managed. She turned towards me and crossed her arms, suddenly interested. "Analyze its attributes in company with one another. There is a tree where I like to read, by the South Gate; would you join me there?"

She nodded. "Of course, Frodo." With that, she turned and walked out of sight.


	2. Relentless Cousin

I suppose I was behind at the time: I'd been so stuck on the idea of Sam loving Miss Cotton that I was thoroughly shocked to later discover my cousin locked in a kiss with my best friend. A neatly organized cluster of roses lay forgotten on the ground.

When I stepped in, they thankfully did not seem too upset. I brought up that I was sure they would be married by this point, and based on the distant expressions of both hobbits, Sam had not proposed yet.

Obviously I still had some work to do.

I'd been about to ask Bilbo for help that night, but he disappeared. He often talked about leaving, but I had thought him in jest. While I was disappointed to see him leave—I was extremely fond of him—I realized, upon returning to Bag End, that Bix was undoubtedly heartbroken. Sure enough, she had that drag in her eyes. I was sure she felt inadequate, believing that her father had left her behind after adopting some stranger to be his heir. She had not been too happy to invite me into the home initially; I could see it in her eyes.

But I'd always admired her. She was very beautiful and very kind . . . always just like a mother, the mother I hadn't known since I was ten years old.

Hence another reason I wanted her to marry Sam.

I only got a glimpse of her before she ran back out to the party field. I dearly hoped she didn't go out there to cry and be alone; while it was very late and perhaps no party guests would be there, it was the perfect place to not be heard, and not to be comforted. And I'd seen the shatter in her eyes when Gandalf repeated to her, as Bilbo had told her years ago, that she would not inherit. But at least she had Bilbo's magical ring; I hoped that was enough.

Gandalf told her not to don it, and about then she left. The moment the door closed behind her, I whirled back on Gandalf.

"That ring is her rightful property, Gandalf," I said. "And considering her circumstances, losing everything she has born rights to to me, why would you say that?"

"This ring is more than you realize," Gandalf replied. He hid the ring behind the other documents in place. "Something is wrong with it."

I shook my head. I couldn't debate this, and Bix would use it if she wished. Something in me said I should give her everything, but I had nowhere else to go, and Bilbo was right: she wasn't inheriting material. She was not one to take charge, and she had no experience with life. Not that I had either, but Bilbo had taught me more than he had taught her. She knew how to read, but she didn't know how to manage a burrow. She never really would; lasses simply didn't do those things. They could be capable, but not for the things of the world, not for more than the isolated home or perhaps interconnected gossip.

Gandalf and I went through the legal procedures, and I was glad Bix had left for the tediousness of it all. I was more glad of that when we stumbled across a portion of Bilbo's will that suggested I marry his daughter to keep her safely established in the house.

The moment Gandalf read those words, I gave the will my most solid glare. She was more like a _sister_ or a _mother_ to me, for heaven's sake; I couldn't even carry the thought. Besides, she was courting Sam, and I planned to be a bachelor as Bilbo had done, which sounded like the best possible lifestyle at this point. The sooner Bix got married—although I would truly miss her—I could be alone and enjoy the comforts of Bag End, from the great bookshelf to the empty parchment to the food Bilbo had left behind.

I thanked Gandalf when we finished, and expected him to ask me to prepare a room for him . . . but he suddenly stood, insisting that he had questions that needed answering. Apparently there were mysteries he did not understand, and they were urgent enough that he left immediately.

He clapped both hands on my shoulders.

"Keep it secret. Keep her safe," he said, his gaze flickering to the mantle, where only Bilbo's ring remained.

He slipped out the door without another word.

But he left it open. I stepped forward to close it . . . and found Bix embracing Sam at the edge of the party field. They held each other for quite a long moment, longer than I thought possible. I hoped Sam was enjoying himself; truly I would yearn to be alone after such a long time. Finally Bix reached up and kissed him. Unable to be less than satisfied, I leaned against the doorframe and watched until I remembered that it was impolite to do so. I shut the door and walked to the corner of the main room, folding my arms. I stared into the fire, suddenly remembering I had an obligation to Miss Cotton to keep.

My eyes sank shut; oh, the cursed wiles of lasses. I'd been trapped in the moment of her pretty face and soft hands, and now I'd sealed my own doom for the next day. If she had anything to say about the novel—which after tonight seemed almost certain to be the case—I would be in her company for some time. Standing her up simply wasn't within my realm of possibility, but I wished I never had to interact with lasses again. There was always a possibility that Rosie was no better than the rest, finding out by some sorcery what I wanted her to say just so she would stick out.

The door at last creaked open. I glanced up, and initially—thinking of the spectacle I had just seen—a smile stretched across my face. I couldn't have kept it down when if I wanted. Bix's eyes, two different colors, met mine. She gave me a peculiar glance.

"It's high time you found Sam a good kisser, Bix," I said. I hoped she realized just how much time she had wasted not drawing him in; he had fallen for her from the start. She was such a kind creature. She would never have turned him down if he had asked, but he never believed me.

She paused, but did not blush. In fact, she almost looked proud of herself. I couldn't quite place most of her expression, as she had never acted this way before.

"Oh, certainly," she said, and a grin spread over her features that made me want to hide. Mostly she appeared ambivalent, but underneath her gaze lay a master plan, working out details and surpassing my intelligence by far. She walked towards me, her feet dragging. "But now I wonder . . . is Miss _Cotton_ a good kisser, Frodo?"

I almost refused the thought entirely. But as my jaw dropped, I remembered her perfect, beautiful little lips. The sudden idea of having my own mouth caressed by them startled me; I would not discuss this. I pivoted on my heel, with nothing else I could say or do. No. No, I would not do this, not with Rosie, not with anyone.

"Come now, Frodo!" Bix persisted. Heavens, she was obsessed. Not that I had been any better about her and Sam, but that was different: they were in love and meant to be. "Don't tell me that dance went so horribly!"

No. And that was the trouble; it did not go horribly, so my expectations would be unrealistically high for every dance and every courtship for the rest of my life. Yes, I confirmed as I opened my bedroom door: I would be a bachelor forever, and I would enjoy it.

"Sleep well, Bix!" My face was turning red, I could tell. In spite of myself, I could not block the idea of kissing Miss Cotton—Rosie, as she had instructed me to call her—from my mind. It was ridiculous. I hardly knew anything of her, save that she was a good dancer, a decent conversationalist, and very, very beautiful.

Very, very beautiful indeed: all I could think about was the shape of her smile, and how sweet and soft it looked when it was let limp. My eyes sank shut, and I leaned against my door.

Bix had done nothing wrong. I was, after all, encouraging marriage for a woman almost twice my age, and indeed I should have expected her to make such a comment. Of course I couldn't have expected such a reaction from myself; it shocked me just how much I had studied Rosie that night, as though assessing her for truthful courtship.

I decided it was high time to get my mind off of such things. I stood and opened my door. My poor, dear Bix: I couldn't imagine feeling so invaded, and loathe as I was to say it, I wondered how it felt to have so little opportunity in life.

I knocked on her door, then stepped right in. I stared down at her bed fondly; I remembered being just a child and finding comfort in her arms every night. She was truly the mother that had left me that stormy night so long ago, and while my opinion of women wasn't the highest, I had to give them credit for being . . . well . . . motherly.

I sat down beside her at her beckon and kissed her cheek.

"Good night, my sweet girl." I squeezed her shoulders; goodness, she was small. She settled in my arms for a minute. I realized perhaps she'd always felt neglected by Bilbo, poor thing. He did seem to prefer me at times, but I knew they loved each other.

"Thank you, Frodo," she said.

For a moment I truly didn't want her to leave me, but I didn't really have much of an option. Besides, I knew I'd rather be alone. But wherever she went, she would always be my cousin, and I would always be here to protect her. I said so, that I would try to be the best for her that I could while her father was gone. I determined that night not to let anything get in the way of her safety or happiness.

She sighed. "Thank you," she whispered again. I'd been about to leave, but she lingered against my chest for a long moment, so I held her. Only when she told me to go did I, but I shot her one last look before I left her behind and slipped into bed.


	3. Debate Afoot

The next morning, the word somehow spread like wildfire that the house was being given away. Gandalf had come back to help; apparently his questions only concerned legal affairs of Hobbiton, and he had been out collecting information. He banged on my door, awakening me, and the moment I let him inside the sorting began.

Some of Bilbo's relatives and friends received minor inheritances, but everyone seemed to trickle right to Bag End. Merry arrived to assist, and even though Sam was outside, Bix came back in to help as well. She'd only gotten to prepare the garden before he showed up, minutes before that point: all work and no benefit. I shook my head every time I saw her tiny figure wrestle a parcel away from some unsuspecting guest; she should be out with Sam, not worrying about my problems.

But thank goodness she didn't see Rosie walk in. Miss Cotton shot me a strange look, then handed me a slip of parchment and proceeded to march the remnants of the lollygaggers out of my burrow. She never looked back.

Before Bix could return from whomever she was retrieving from outside, I slipped open the folded paper. It was ripped neatly into a rectangle and bent in half; I could see flowing script underneath, as though Rosie had been taught very particularly how to write by a skilled teacher.

 _12:30. I have the novel._

I rubbed the ridge of my nose. I'd hoped she'd forgotten, or wasn't serious, but I supposed I still had a little time, and this wasn't hugely out of my way. It wasn't yet 11:00; I would eat before I left.

I mentioned to Merry that I had to be gone just after noon, and he persisted in making an early meal for me and Bix. I told him tea would probably be all right, that he'd been working hard and deserved some himself. He consented, and soon the smell of chamomile tea filled the house; I had nothing else in my cupboards at the time.

Bix and I made ourselves comfortable on the couch; I slacked against the couch arm, and my tensed back relaxed over the support that I so desperately needed. I nearly dozed off from my exhaustion when I noticed a grin spread over Bix's face; her gaze flickered repeatedly to the window. I listened and heard Sam's shears outside.

But for some reason she did not jump up to go and see him. I decided perhaps she was just a shy young lady and needed some encouragment. I leaned up and nudged her arm, and from the effort slacked against the couch again.

"I give you every right to distract him," I said. "Just don't let him cut himself on his own shears."

Bix gave me a smart stare, and I almost quieted her before she could say anything. I decided to hear her out anyway. "Did Rosie get swept in with that great big horde? You should have given her the chocolate in the pantry, and the roses from the garden." I realized letting her tease me was a mistake, and I almost told her there was no attraction, but she pressed forward. "And a declaration of love in your will, with a signature on it too."

She was obviously confused. And I decided Rosie would let her know if she pushed it too far; she'd confront me, and we would both assert to each other that we were simply not in a position to think such things. No doubt she had a respectable creature picked out. Where Bix had gotten this idea, I did not know, although it had started the night before.

I knew I shouldn't have danced so much with Rosie.

"Bix, your desire to look out for me is impeccable," I said. I almost let sarcasm into my words, but I was being unresponsive enough without shunning every word she had to say.

She smiled innocently at me; she truly did have the wrong idea. "Why, thank you. Until you are settled with either Rosie or some other incredibly amazing lass, I shall not rest and neither shall you."

"But I have something to fall back on," I said. The moment she was married to Sam she would forget about my unmarried state. "I shall become a bachelor. But every lovely young lady is charged with being married at some time or other."

"Well, where do you think the term 'spinster' ever came from?" she countered. "I make no guarantees on a life with Sam, and I pray you have nothing mischievous to add to my relationship with him."

I shrugged. "Not thus far. Just don't let Pippin and Merry know, and I'll refrain from doing anything obnoxious." She sat there for a minute, lost in thought. I glanced outside, wondering again why she didn't run for him. "Well? Aren't you going to go greet him?"

Her eyes trailed to the window, and she smiled again, peering over the rim of the window. I relaxed against my couch arm, closing my eyes to wait for her departure. But Bix's voice snapped me out of it.

"Frodo, get out of here," she hissed. "Go to the gate where you met Gandalf yesterday; I'll come and find you." Confused and ruffled, I almost asked her how she knew where I was going to meet Rosie there, but she cut me off with a glare. I realized this had nothing to do with Rosie. "You curious creature, get out of here! I'll explain later."

I leaped up from the couch and raced out the front door, more out of curiosity than obedience to my cousin. I couldn't make out who was in the approaching cart, but apparently it was a problem. I hoped Bix would be all right; perhaps it was an old lover I didn't know about.

At that thought, I barreled off the road and towards the west gate. Perhaps I could get there early enough to beat Rosie, then explain to her that my cousin probably needed my help. That would be a good way to get out of it all.

As I trotted away from home, I realized just how improper the thought was: _I_ had asked Rosie to join me for reading, and had given her a location. I was only acting against it because Bix kept suggesting that I was attracted to her, which I knew wasn't true by any means. This would either be a pleasant read or it would end quickly, depending on how compatible or not Rosie and I were.

Of course, I would never be on Miss Cotton's good side again if she decided I was cracked or impertinent.

I hummed Bilbo's walking song to myself, shoving my hands in my pockets. I inhaled the soft Shire air, shimmering in my heart like a cleansing water, as though I had every opportunity to throw out the evil in my life and take the good again. And while it was a repetitive process, it elated me just at the simple consideration of breathing as a lifelong miracle, one that kept me going. Oh, how we take the little things for granted. Birdsong filled my ears, and the grass traced my feet like a loving wife's fingers.

My eyebrow shot straight up at that. That certainly wasn't intended.

The notion of surprise awakened me enough that I noticed a figure ahead of me, planted under a tree near the west gate. I prepared to politely offer that I was here to meet an acquaintence, and if they could tell her I had come and found a tree distant enough from the third party, when I realized it was Rosie. I stopped short; she had a pair of books by her side, four on the other side of her, and one opened. The book we had discussed the night before I saw in her hands. She poured into it, but she evidently did not read very fast.

I cleared my throat, and she looked up. I'd initially thought her eyes were blue, but upon peering at them I realized they were forest green. They widened upon seeing me, and the smile I saw spreading on her face quickly forced itself down.

She was happy to see me?

And didn't want me to know?

"You're early," she said.

I nodded to her. "So are you." Then my gaze turned to her books. "And you've been busy, it seems."

She shrugged. "Arts fascinate me, and this is the only one I haven't mastered. I wanted to get some practice before you came; I'm aware that you're rather smart." Her face turned soft pink; she looked so . . . adorable like that.

My eyebrows drew together. "But you write very well. How old are you?"

Her pink face grew redder. "I've been writing longer than I've been reading long books, Mr. Baggins—Frodo. I'm twenty-nine, sir."

"Twenty-nine," I murmured. I scanned her; she made much more sense now. She wasn't even of age. Then again, I hadn't been of age myself as of two days ago, but I felt older, even though we only had four years' difference.

I glanced down at the books. "So. What have you deduced?"

She sighed. "That you were right . . ."

I sat in front of her, feeling triumphant.

". . . about one thing." Her eyes shimmered. "And that I was right about three."

My eyebrow shot up, and thus the debate was afoot. Her points opened my eyes at every turn, although there were some times that she did admit I had gotten the details right, and thus my analysis was correct. She had such an odd way of thinking, too complex and ridiculously far-fetched—until she explained her conclusions, of course—for my taste.

But I enjoyed it _immensly_. She could debate better than any lass I'd ever met, and while I was never argumentative, my intellect had never really been challenged before. I enjoyed simple banter, and hoped it didn't turn into any real argument. I never liked conflict much.

Interestingly, as the debate wore on, she downplayed her correct points, as though she did not notice them, and emphasized what I had said right. I realized then that her original point in expressing that she had gotten three right must have been some sort of initial enmity for my snuffing of her opinions the night before.

"Rosie . . ." I said. "I apologize for the way I treated you last night."

She blinked at me. Oh, her eyes were so big. And I remembered Bix asking me if she was a good kisser the night before; her supple lips shifted as she considered a response, and I felt the gap between us closing. I quickly widened it.

"Whatever for? That is to say, what ever did you do?"

I shrugged, trying to figure out how to explain it. "I doubted your ability to analyze the novel, but it is clear that I have met my match."

She blushed with a sweet smile . . . sweet like strawberries, sweet like how those lips perhaps felt and cherished when pressed against one's own. I shook the thought away. She reacted to me as though I were some authoritative monarch granting her deepest wish with a compliment. "Why, thank you, Frodo." Then she glanced up at the sun. She snatched her hand close to her, and I noticed it had been edging towards mine. I frowned.

"Well, it is getting late. I appreciate your invitation, Frodo; good day." She stood and walked briskly away.

I glanced around at her books. I didn't want to call her back—she was clearly infatuated with me.

But she was also very clearly interesting. And very clearly beautiful.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.

"Rosie, you forgot your books," I called out.

Soon she came trotting back. I smiled at the way her curls bounced around her face.

"Thank you," she muttered, gathering up her books. I picked up one pile, but before I could offer to carry them back she reached for them. Her fingers slipped over my arm, and she froze. I was unaffected, save for the idea that she truly could not be less ridiculous in this moment: we were clearly no match at all, and she was younger than I.

She cleared her throat and gathered her books again into her hands. With a brisk bow, she walked away.

I watched her. She glanced back three times before moving on, as though she were expecting something.

Bix came to fetch me soon enough. Gandalf left that day; I had known he was going to, although I truly didn't understand why.


End file.
